AT THE CIRCUS
By Umberto Fiori
Translated By Geoffrey Brock
At the center of the lit circle, rising
from cotton-candy calf muscles,
the White Clown ushers his
eyebrows skyward. He grates his ukulele,
opens a heart-shaped mouth, inhales—
his serenade begins.
Now's the time. From the shadows,
a blast like a trumpeting elephant:
obscene, ragged. The Auguste capers like a fawn,
darts away, pads around
with his trombone. The gold of the slide
slips into and out of the infinite.
Everything smells of panther
and piss and mint. His gaze fixed
on the clash between the welled tears
and the awful laughing shoes,
the little boy grows
ever more grave, ever more severe.
2518 IV -Out of the dust had emerged something quite unexpected;
As this is perhaps by chance, to become a triple threat; One must be kin of the singing, dancing and acting;
Enter Step Right Up;
This very stage has returned from the dust of the academy; Where the Ringleader chants
"Come one, Come all!"
"To a circus of unfathomable stories! Tales of which you haven't heard! From far away places!"
The scarlet/white painting's of clown's, gymnast's, and siamese twins; Comes to mind but all atone to being lonely;
Another piece of a puzzle;
Another mosaic to a bigger picture;
Another memento; Of another time-